Spotlight
by meetmeatthecoda
Summary: AU on the 6.13 party scene in which there is established Lizzington, Liz is not responsible for Red's arrest, and Liz is at the party. Liz sits at the bar and takes some time to observe Red in the aftermath of all the prison turmoil. Drabble-like. Strong T rating for adult themes. Lizzington.


"Aviation cocktail, please."

The bartender nods and goes off to get her drink, and Liz eases herself up onto a bar stool, crossing her legs demurely and smoothing down her little black dress, her eyes locked on Red, who is across the room taking animatedly with a small group of associates.

Basking in the spotlight.

When Red told her he was throwing a party, only shortly after his release from prison, Liz was a little taken aback but not particularly surprised. She had assumed he would want to celebrate with his people, boast a little and revel in the fact that he has, once again, escaped death.

Liz watches as a cackling man in an ill-fitting suit claps Red on the back. She prickles a little. Red wears a tux infinitely better.

(And the strong line of his shoulders is hers to touch, and hers alone.)

Over the past few days, he's taken great pleasure in planning the event. Ordering the food, hiring the help, inviting the criminals. And his friends are no less enthusiastic.

From her perch at the bar, Liz can see Glen off to the side of the room with a heaping plate of food and a woman on each arm. Heddy is hovering near the long buffet tables, eyeing the platters of jumbo shrimp and a handsome, uniformed general in turn. Even Vontae - with whom Liz only recently became acquainted but instantly took a liking to - is trading shy glances with a young waitress.

Liz smiles to herself.

Red certainly knows how to throw a party.

(One of his many wonderful talents.)

Liz leaves Red's friends to their mingling and turns her attention back to the man himself. He's now regaling a different but equally rapt group of men with one of his wildly engaging tales, clearly thriving on the attention, feeding off the energy in the room, exuberant in his love of life.

(And, oh, does he captivate her.)

He's beaming, soaking up the admiring gazes, reveling in the attention.

Or so he thinks.

But Liz knows better. Because she knows Red.

(Almost better than she knows herself.)

And it's easy for Liz to see that, right now, Red is struggling. He's not yet aware of it but the psychological clues are like neon signs grabbing her attention.

There's a wildness in his eyes, a flush to his cheeks, an extra volume to his voice that isn't usually there, even at his most charismatic. Liz knows Red - the real Red - better than just about anyone and right now? Right now, he's floundering.

So, she's staying close by.

"Here you are, ma'am."

The bartender is back to slide an elegant, long-stemmed wine glass across the bar, filled to the brim with crimson-colored liquid.

"Thank you."

As he nods and turns to the next customer, Liz wastes no time in raising the glass to her lips and taking a generous sip.

Ah. Spring.

(She'll never forget that fateful dinner in Montreal and she tries not to see the fact that Red knew she would adore this drink as some kind of a cosmic sign. It's difficult though.

Sometimes it feels as though they were written in the stars.)

Liz takes another sip of her drink before resting it on the bar and returning to her favorite hobby.

Gazing at Red.

She knows if he glanced over right now and saw her holding this particular drink, _his_ drink, he'd be delighted. She'd meet his eyes and smile prettily, raising her glass just a little and tilting it in his direction before taking another sip, staring at him all the while. She can just imagine the coy grin and the way his eyes would flash, she can almost picture it, and he would probably come over to her, his stride measured but purposeful, and maybe he'd even kiss her, in front of all his friends, he'd –

But, no matter how much she imagines it, back in the real world? She's still sitting alone at the bar.

Liz sighs.

Across the room, Red finishes his story and makes his excuses to the protesting group of men, pushing them good-naturedly towards the food and moving to the next gaggle of guests, working the room expertly.

But he doesn't spare a glance towards Liz.

(And she misses his eyes on her like a phantom limb.)

He's been rather scattered in the short while since he was released from prison. Not in any obvious way, nothing any of the acquaintances here tonight would pick up on, just little things that Liz can't help but notice.

Like the fact that he hasn't maintained eye contact with her for more than about a minute at a time, when he normally takes great pleasure in staring deep into her eyes at any opportunity. He hasn't sat down to talk to her for more than a cursory question or two, when normally he'll engage her in conversation for hours at a time. And, aside from their all too brief hug outside the prison, he hasn't touched her in what feels like years, when normally he can't go five minutes without taking ahold of some part of her and not letting go.

It's the little things that nag at her.

(And she feels horribly selfish for missing his attention so dearly, when he clearly takes such care to spoil her. She is the luckiest woman in the world to have somehow caught the eye of Raymond Reddington. And it's intoxicating.)

But he has just had an extended stay in prison and come within mere inches of death. That experience will change anyone, Liz muses, tapping her finger lightly on the bar, at least for a little while.

(And she hopes it's only a little while. She misses Red.)

But Liz knows better than anyone that it all comes down to the most basic distinction between personalities, taught in every introductory psychology class and ingrained into her analytical skills.

Introvert versus extrovert.

If it were her, Liz imagines that she would shut herself away, at least for a while, and crave silence, privacy, and comfort after an experience like the one Red has had. But that's Liz. She's simply more introverted than Red and she doesn't thrive on socialization the way he does.

Red has been distracted, excitable, and on edge in the past few days, unable to rest and relax, and Liz understands why. That's who he is and that's how he reacts to situations like the one he found himself in no more than a week ago.

(This may be the biggest difference between them.)

Red is an extrovert and, after being shut up in a tiny cell for weeks on end, he's throwing himself headfirst into a party, surrounding himself with people to try and feel more like himself. Right now, he's craving the spotlight, going overboard in exposing himself to people, thinking that's what he needs to readjust. He thinks he'll only feel like himself once he's orchestrated an event worthy of the name "Raymond Reddington".

But Liz knows better.

She knows that things haven't really hit him yet. Everything that happened - everything that _almost_ happened – hasn't sunk in. He's trying to reorient himself, like a planet knocked out of orbit, and get back to his normal lifestyle. But all he's doing is ignoring his trauma in an attempt to feel like himself again. The host, the matchmaker.

The Concierge.

But it's clear to Liz that, in his subconscious, what he's truly craving is intimacy. Something familiar and grounding, comforting and safe.

Her.

And Liz knows that later tonight, when all the liquor is drunk and all the guests have gone home, her dress will be on the floor and he'll be buried so deep inside of her in a need borne of sheer desperation once things come crashing down and she's simply tingling in anticipation.

Because she knows better.

(Just like she knows that as soon as he's devoured her, he'll be desperate for comfort, contact, closeness, wanting nothing more than to hold her and be held. And she won't let him go until morning.

And she thinks she may be craving that even more than he is because watching this disaster unfold, helpless to help him, reduced to a spectator while he was almost _killed_?

Well, it was hard for her too.)

But, for now, Liz sits on her barstool sipping her drink and keeping watch over Red as he flits about the room, his face a little too flushed and his eyes a little too bright, frantically trying to adjust to not having his own execution impending.

She watches as he re-fills drinks and assures a good time is being had by all, visiting the kitchen, arranging dates, even flirting with a woman or two, but Liz just sits and calmly sips her drink.

Because she knows better.

She knows that at the end of the night, he'll want no one but her. In just a few short hours, he'll be wrapped up so tight around her that she won't know where he ends and she begins.

Liz smiles at the cliché thought.

(She likes it more than she ever thought she would.)

Liz knows he'll always come back to her.

So, for now, she can wait her turn. For now, she watches him be the center of attention, lit up like a spotlight, and waits for him to find his way home. Calmly, patiently.

Well.

Liz hides her grin behind her glass.

Mostly.


End file.
